Defying Thine Law
by Ellen Tee
Summary: Edward has always stood for something. He has a strong history of survival, and now the tradition goes on. However, when Edward sets boundaries that are for his child's own good, he does not realize that she is him, and she will make her own door.
1. Warmth

Oy. The idea was bad. I realize that now. Maybe I realized it then. But, then again, I am... headstrong.

I'll try and make it... less destroying of FMA than previously. Sorry to all...

Here is the first chapter for Young Alchemist:

Disclaimer: I own nothing. Really, you can take my characters. Nobody seems to like them anyways...

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"There was always a harsh reality with alchemy. It was an exact science. And no matter how much somebody wanted to claim something as their own, it could always be found in some forgotten, ancient tome. Always. Because, really, no one could be original in something like alchemy, right? Wrong!

"For instance, there has only been one alchemist in Amestris with the resourcefulness to use what most would call a crippling disability to his advantage. He used his actual prosthetic limbs to create weapons in tight places. Truthfully, how many could say that they would think of their own body–and yes, this man considered metal to be part of him–as a tool?

"Well, how many could think of it as a sacrifice? Something expendable? Something not necessary? How many people could think to use an arm as payment to keep their brother alive? Only one man I know: his name is Edward Elric. And he is the one I am truly grateful for."

An extremely large man awkwardly sat down in a quaint dining room chair. His size was the only thing a person could distinguish from him because he was wearing a recently polished suit of heavy armor. Not the new kind that was mandatory for all soldiers nowadays, but the kind the one could take photos of when they visited a castle from the Dark Ages. The kind of armor that raised eyebrows and questions all in one go when it was worn in public.

Though, the occupants of the room didn't seem to take notice of the man's strange attire. In fact, he seemed to be the glowing spot in the room. His personality emanated warmth, comfort: a sense of homeliness that made almost any gathering pleasant. The occupants had been attentive while he spoke, for he did not speak as often as they would have liked. Nor as loudly.

Regardless of the first man observed, however, the second one was received with a little more awe, if not trepidation, and the room became wired with polite conversation. He tried to command their attention, but this too was snuffed. And just when their fears were nearly realized–that the second man would blow a gasket because of his notorious short temper and haughty attitude–the saving grace entered the room.

A third member, of which will be observed, entered the room and commanded more attention than the first or second. Not that she wanted it. She, actually, was quietly embarrassed about the softened glances and the quiet murmurings following which definitely had traces of the words "cute" and her name.

The third member merely crawled from her bedroom and scooted down the stairs because her night light had failed in its purpose of keeping the dark away. And she wanted her daddy to check for monsters and get another light up there. All of this was hardly intelligible because of a relentless habit–thumb-sucking, as it were–and the group tittered all hush-hush because the cute little girl was scared of the dark.

Everybody knew the third member was the deadliest person in the room–well, so to speak. This observation is stated so airily in its nature for the simple reason that she was the only one who could keep the second from shouting. She didn't even have to say anything. Just one look with big, sad eyes and glowering and grumbling would cease n its entirety. Because, even with two very-scary looking metal automail limbs, the second member was really a softy under the tough-guy act.

So, without grumbling or hesitance–more with eagerness and joy, rather–the second member excused himself from the table, receiving many polite nods of the head, and hoisted the third member onto his good hip. The one that didn't make "ouchies".

"Well, Therese," said the second to the third, "it would seem that you need a good monster inspector tonight. I'm your guy."

"And a bulb!" By which, the third meant a lightbulb.

The second assented with a very solemn nod of his head. "A good one. One that won't burn out."

"And maybe a story?" The third glanced ever-so-hopefully into the second's eyes. To her, his eyes always seemed softer when he looked at her. It made her feel they were sharing a secret. _I'll look at you this way, and you look at me this way! But, shhh, don't tell Mommy!_

As much as the second member would have loved to just stay up in his little girl's room and read over all the classic fairytales, he did have guests to attend to. And even though he had been about to so rudely shout at them just moments before, now that his head was not filled with the indignity of their lack of interest, he knew that he had to be a polite host. And a polite husband. He could not just leave his wife to fend off all well-wishers and thanks-givers. So, with a sad shake of the head, the second person replied, "Sorry, Therese. Not tonight. We've got people we've got to pay attention to. But I promise double stories tomorrow, okay?"

"'Kay, Daddy."

Daddy. It was still a strange name. Not exactly unwanted. Just strange. For so long, the second member had been Brother. From Brother to Daddy was quite a big step.

"Wait, wait! Daddy, the bulb! Did you forget?" The look she gave him was so accusing, so hurt, so full of absolute despair that he actually cringed. And the girl in his arms was four. Which was only further justification of the most bold statement that the third member was indeed the most deadliest occupant in the house.

"Course not," he replied. And, in that moment, the hurt, accusing, and despair vanished from the little girl's face. Because she had faith in her Daddy.

He began to head back down the stairs, the little girl clinging sleepily to his neck, regardless of the fact that he had her fragile little body safely in his gentle grip and his assurances that he would not let go. No, it was not a case of mistrust. It was on the opposite pole. The little girl felt comforted by the soft feeling of her father's long hair brushing her tiny hand as he swayed to and fro during each stride. It was the reason she never let go.

The "bulb" was finally retrieved, the third member tucked in with reassurances that, "Yes, tomorrow you get double stories," and, "Yes, Uncle Fonz-y would still be there when she woke up. So yes, you can go to sleep."

Then, the light flicked off, the room less eerily dark, and the third member dropped off into dreams about something sweet and edible, however specifics were never recalled.

Finally, reluctantly, the second member shut the door so slowly that not even a "thud" was heard by the only dog in the house–who had faithfully served as a watchdog for all of his long years. Maybe it was his hearing that was going. But when the second member returned down the stairs and his wife brought out a tray of delicious-smelling treats, the watchdog certainly heard the soft clatter of spoons and forks, because he came trotting over–despite the bad hip–ears pricked up and eyes attentive.

Everyone enjoyed these delicacies. Even the watchdog snuck his fair share. But the man in the peculiar suit of armor–who was observed as the first member, or better known as Al–did not remove his helmet to even taste the treat. In fact, he had not had any of the aromatic food that the second member's wife had prepared.

Just as no one seemed aware of Uncle Fonz-y's–for yes, that is what the third member did often call her uncle–unusual choice in dress, they did not seem to stress about his strange lack of appetite. For it was not strange at all. At least to the merry group that gathered in the dining room and living room, it wasn't. No, most had known since boyhood, and these habits were not new. The man had not eaten a meal since the age of ten, which was–for any normal human being–a rather long period of time to not consume food nor drink any beverage.

The strange phenomenon was vaguely mention in the Al's speech somewhere in the past ten minutes. However, it well be mentioned again for the reader's benefit. The speech had been about the second member, give by the first, and interrupted by the third. The second member was indeed the well-known Edward Elric, Fullmetal Alchemist–as I am sure you are aware, or you would not be interested in these observations involving his life. The third was his daughter, of whom we shall see more in later observations. And the first was none other than Alphonse Elric, younger brother of the Fullmetal Alchemist.

Now, some while back, it can be approximated at around fifteen years or so–the passage of time is not so relevant as the events are during it, good reader–the two brothers suffered the terrible loss of their mother. Devastated as they were, they were hopeful, behind hope. There is a point when one must stop hoping and begin to grieve. And if I am the one to first inform you of this, dearest reader, I do beg your pardon. But the point is, the two boys foolishly thought that they could bring their mother back with a simple math equation, some scribbles on the ground, and a couple of elements and compounds. Of course, this defiles all laws of nature, and the two boys payed dearly for their tampering with the natural order of things. Edward lost a leg. Alphonse lost his life.

Don't stop now! Keep going! Have faith that things will end up properly with Alphonse sitting at the table in a suit of armor rather than floating around in the great beyond. Because, although it is depressing business–boring for some of you who know the Fullmetal Alchemist almost personally–it is a necessary story that needs to be told so that we can return to this point of general happiness.

As it were, Edward realized what had happened. He also realized that he was now alone in the world. And I have never had the hardship of experiencing it, but I hear that it is the most horrifying feeling in the world. I would not wish it on any of you. Well, young Edward, at age eleven, realized this and understood he could not get by without his brother. So, summoning his last strength, he managed to wrestle with some sort of omniscient gate and haggle for his brother's soul. This is the point in the story that our hero, little Edward, loses another limb, as Alphonse pointed out in his speech.

However, it was not in vain, because although he lost a limb, he regained his brother's soul. Which he managed to attach to the suit of armor, which was presently seated awkwardly at the table, trying very careful not to destroy the chair.

Now that we know why Uncle Fonz-y is not eating, that it is not a disease or disorder, we can continue fairly safely in the rest of our observations of the occupants. There was, of course, Edward. I shall not bore you with details of his past because, as I said before, anybody reading this must have some background knowledge of the Fullmetal Alchemist. Or they have heard of his short stature and shorter temper.

In the kitchen was his wife, Winry Rockbell Elric, who felt inclined to childishly reprimand him with a wrench when nobody was watching.

There was Mr. Roy Mustang, who preferred being disassociated from the military that had once been so corrupt. So it was Roy, Mustang, or Roy Mustang. And if you absolutely had to use some term of respect–like Edward was forcing his child to do, not likely out of respect–it was _Mr._ Mustang.

Then there was Mrs. Riza Hawkeye Mustang, which was really no surprise after all these years. Word on the street was the two finally were looking at a house, not too far away from the Rockbell-turned-Elric residence, which, despite Edward's grumbling, was a great pleasure.

Of course, it wasn't a proper get-together with Mrs. Gracia Hughes, widow of the late Brigadier General Hughes, and his now teenage daughter, Elicia. They blamed the strange clothes and make-up on her father's gruesome death. Really, the girl was missing a father. How could she not go awry.

She had brought her latest boyfriend, who really–even though he was, in Mrs. Hughes's opinion, the worst looking one yet–was very polite and decent to everyone. There was some debate over whether his name was Jordan or Gordon, but of course, not in front of Elicia or Jordan/Gordon himself. After all, talking with a pierced, I hear, is hard. And it is plausible that the young man may have slurred enough of his speech to have to two similar names twisted up.

There was Sid Curtis, widower of Izumi, Edward and Alphonse's teacher. And friend.

Of course there was Major Armstrong, Sergeant Master Fuery, and Technical Inspector Falman. Breda was there as well, but he contributed nothing very worthy to the conversation. As these observations were recorded, I learned, dear reader, that not every little detail can be recorded. And if you would like to be mentioned, something smart must be said. Or you will just be an Armstrong, Fuery, Falman, or Breda. Or a Havoc, but that's only if you smoke six packs a day.

I am straying from the important matters, though. The reason I am fretting over minute details now, dearest reader, is because they are simple and happy. There is no other reason. Remember these happy times, reader, because this will be the last happy day in the Elric residence for quite some time. Please reader, remember the happy things. Remember that, even though I have forgotten completely of the "bulb", in time, I shall be reminded, and I will give new, brighter light. One that the monsters are very, very afraid of.

This was a special occasion the Elric household. It was Thanksgiving dinner–something Edward had learned about during his many travels, some of which are a little more vague than others. And although the idea was derived from pilgrims giving thanks to natives, he said that families also used it to celebrate their thankfulness in general.

So, it was a very historic day, as far as many of my observations have gone, for it was the first Thanksgiving in Amestris.

There was turkey, and mashed potatoes, and sweet potatoes–with brown sugar, butter, and walnuts of course–, spinach casserole, cranberry sauce, fresh oven-baked rolls, and, as I have recently mentioned, a fantastic array of sweets.

The rest of the evening was quiet, filled with comfortable laughter and talk about the good old days–at least the light side of the spectrum. Then they had started to say what they were thankful for. Alphonse had been last, and his speech had been about Edward, as everyone had expected. However, they hadn't expected a sleepy little girl, whom they all knew as Therese, to wander downstairs.

And that is where we began, dear reader. And it is also where we shall end, I am afraid. The rest of the evening would be rather tedious to describe, although it is my duty to do so. You may look up the full observation in another archive. However, this is the end of all I, as the observer, dubbed as important.

I really do stress it as important, dear reader. I really do. Because here, I tried as best I could as a humble observer to paint the picture of love I saw so clearly. Because it was there between old and young, wise and foolish. And, as I have warned before, it shall not be there again, for a very, very long time.

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-yawns- have not slept in 24 hours. -- I don't even know it any of that makes sense. Well, this is what will replace Young Alchemist. Don't worry. That little blemish isn't going anywhere because I need it as a reference. (Well, I suppose the longer it's up there–for some–the more cause for worry).

Anywho, the story will not be all told like this. Don't expect an all-knowing narrator the entire time, constantly and quite annoyingly addressing you as dear reader. Just trying to stress a message. And besides, I just couldn't help myself.

Damn birds are tweeting. I'll never get to sleep. Please Review, cause I seriously earned it this time!!!


	2. Mistakes

Well, despite the lack of sleep, I found that the last chapter came out... much improved. I still have not slept a single hour over break (too much work to do!) So, bear with me. If something doesn't make sense because it's a typo, use common sense, kay?

Disclaimer: I don't own anything. And as some have pointed out, they are very pleased by that fact.

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Sunlight filtered through dismal gray clouds, and through thin white curtains, spilling lazily across the cold wooden floor. It was still the early hours of the morning; dew was just beginning to drip from the grass, birds just beginning to twitter.

It was that period between winter and fall, where the winter reigns during night, yet crisp autumn days replace the chilling cold of the night. A few brave leaves remained on the otherwise naked trees, soon to be defeated by relentless gusts of icy wind, which would signify the end of the dying autumn and the beginning of a new winter.

That particular day, however, the large oak tree, standing tall and proud in front of the house, still had almost all of its leaves. Really, one could not depend upon merely glancing out the window to decide how many layers to apply. This was because the drops of dew skimming from the big oak shone brightly, making the day seem sunny and nice.

The cold bitterness of the floor was a much better indicator. And the person who knew this best was Mr. Edward Elric. His joints would ache terribly whenever the cold crept into the squeaky floorboards of their generation-old farmhouse. So he could always advise his wife on the particulars of her outer garments.

Today was one of those days the poor Edward awoke because a dull throbbing in his remaining joints. _Ah_, was his first thought, _another day of hell._

He knew that returning into the peaceful oblivion of sleep was beyond him now. The pain wasn't exactly excruciating; it was more an uncomfortable feeling that made him twist and turn, trying to avoid every feeling altogether.

There was only one method to lessen his suffering on such miserable mornings: distractions. Something to keep his mind off the squirming ache inside of him, like a good book. Or cooking a surprise gourmet breakfast. Edward selected the first, wisely taking into calculation the fact that dirty dishes were still piled high from Thanksgiving the previous evening.

He chose a rather small tome, one he had acquired during his many years traveling into regions unheard of. It was called _Uncle Tom's Cabin, _and it was about the issue of slavery.

The spine of the book was already looking like it needed to be rebound. It was cracked and bent, not out of neglect but use. Edward had read the story at least twenty times, which was rather strange. For Edward was more the type to pick up an encyclopedia for entertainment. Well, he had picked up an ancient volume of a foreign encyclopedia set, also from his many travels. Of course, he couldn't understand a scratch of it, though, because it was in "Chai-nees", and he hadn't had the time to learn it. Regardless, the volume had a place of honor on his bookshelf, which was growing exponentially every year.

Just as he was turning page fifty, Edward heard an exaggerated yawn coming from the end of the hall. It was the brightest room in the entire house, not only because of the nightlight, but the window facing east so that sunlight poured into the room every single morning. And, although he still wasn't sure if it was a curse or a blessing, it had made the occupant into a habitual early-riser.

A door squealed on its rusty hinge–Edward made a mental note to grease all of the door hinges–and the soft padding of tiny feet drew closer. Soon the door to the library was pushed back. In entered a groggy girl with a bad case of bed head. Edward restrained a chuckle as she clambered into his lap in a daze, her favorite stuffed bear–Tad was its name, he was nearly sure–hanging by its paw from her tiny fist.

"Wuchya readin, Daddy?" her speech was slurred with sleep.

He pointed to the spine, which, although it had suffered substantial damage, the title was clearly visible in a tinselly looking material.

"Who's Uncle Tom?" she asked.

Edward knew that soon a string of petty questions would follow. But he smiled, replying patiently, "A very strong, kind man in the story."

"How is he strong?"

"Well, Uncle Tom is a slave. His owners ask him to hurt other slaves, and he refuses, so they hurt him instead. And when some other slaves run away, he refuses to tell his owners where they have gone. So they... hurt him more." Edward sighed and ran a hand through his hair in frustration. He had never really explained death to his child. Maybe it was the fact that his own childhood had been full of it that he avoided the subject entirely.

With wide eyes, the little girl asked, "Why didn't Uncle Tom tell them where they were?"

"Because he was protecting the runaways, Therese." He ruffled her hair affectionately, setting the book down. Perhaps another day, he would finish it. But now, a very mouth-watering aroma wafted from downstairs.

He rose, shifting her to the appropriate hip, and headed towards the source of the smell.

"Uncle Fonz-y, Uncle Fonz-y!" Therese bubbled happily when she noticed the bulky suit of armor was the cause of the delicious scent of crackling bacon and omelets.

Escaping from Edward's light grasp, Therese barreled into her uncle with squeal. They had not had enough time to get reacquainted before the rest of the Thanksgiving guests arrived and Therese had been tucked in.

But it seemed like one of those rare mornings when Uncle Fonz-y hadn't slipped away the moment she blinked. Yes, feeling the cold metal under her groping hands was proof enough that he hadn't had to leave right away. But her daddy had promised that he would be there, so she wasn't particularly surprised that he was leaning over the stove with an apron tied around his suit of armor.

At that moment, he bent down to eye level, asking cheerily, "What do you like in your omelet, _ma petite amie_?"

To a four year old, it was a nothing more than a jibberish nickname. To most Amestrians, it was merely jibberish as well. Edward was the only other person who knew Alphonse was calling her "my little friend."

"Plain, Fonz-y!" she shrieked, absolutely shaking with joy. Her uncle was actual _here_, cooking breakfast! This delighted her to no end, and it delighted Edward to no end to see her so happy.

"What's all this shrieking about?" came a groggy voice from somewhere along the mid-section of the staircase. The floorboards creaked as the dazed Mrs. Elric made her entrance, unintentionally flaunting her long, blond hair.

Alphonse could not have been more pleased with the appearance of the family. Edward and Winry were the same as ever, contrasting as always; light and delicate versus dark and strong, emotional and talkative versus a man who preferred action. And then, there was Therese, combining the best traits of each of his most beloved people in the world. She had Edward's thick, coarse golden hair, and Winry's deep, watery blue eyes. She was short, thanks to Edward, and slender, thanks to Winry. She had a tendency to become irritated really easily about incorrect facts about her, such as forgetting the half in her four and a half years. She always cried when her Uncle Fonz-y left for work. It always made Alphonse want to cry to, but he didn't. But, only because he couldn't.

"Therese was shrieking because Alphonse is making omelets on this fine morning," Edward said, swinging Winry in his arms and planting a kiss on her cheek. "Good morning."

Therese giggled as she watched her parents exchange 'good mornings' and good morning kisses.

When they finally got through greeting each other, much to Therese's dismay, Winry said, "Well, I guess there is good reason to shriek if Al is making eggs!"

"Not just eggs!" Alphonse said dramatically, mixing eggs and cheese in a small, porcelain bowl. "The famous Elric recipe that has been passed down for generations. No one knows the secret ingredient, except for yours truly."

Therese squealed with excitement. "Tell me, Uncle Fonz-y! Tell me!"

"Hmmm... I don't know if your ready." He applied just enough drama to make the girl go absolutely nuts. She shook her head in frustration and punched an invisible enemy in the air.

"I _am _ready, Uncle Fonz-y! Teach me! I want to make Elric eggs!" She clung desperately to Alphonse's leg, looking up at him with pathetic puppy-dog eyes that melted him. He hadn't steeled himself against such an attack, and now he felt awful for putting her in such a frenzy. He really didn't have a secret ingredient; he had just been playing up the moment. He rubbed the back of his head guiltily.

"I need you to do something really important, Therese," Alphonse started cautiously. "I need _your _help to make the omelets."

She looked flabbergasted. "_Me_?"

"Yes, you! You have that special Elric knack for making omelets; it's in your blood. Officially, you need two Elrics to make Elric eggs!"

Therese gasped at this latest development. But she was thrilled at Alphonse when he lifted her onto the counter, handing her an egg. He was going to teach her how to crack it without getting any shells in the batter. Or rather, he would have taught her how to do it, if the most coincidental series of events had not happened.

The faithful guard dog had just woken up, his joints aching just as terribly as Edward's, and his mind clouded by senility. The only thing that registered was the sizzle of bacon frying and the greasy aroma filling the house. He picked himself up, unable to contain the drool sliding from his mouth.

The dog worked his way down the stairs, into the kitchen, where he saw the frying pan with the bacon on it. He tried something he had never tried before and never would again; he leapt up onto the stove and tried snatching it. Before anyone could stop him, the dog had his paws on the frying pan.

Just as Alphonse was leaning over to show Therese the correct method of cracking an egg, the most terrible yelp echoed in the house, causing both Edward and Alphonse to spring at the source. They both spotted the dog at the same time, Alphonse beating Edward to him, threw the dog away from the burning metal and grease.

The dog went skidding across the floor, both Therese and Winry to their feet now. Winry had her hands cupped over her mouth, and although no one could see it, she kept mouthing 'oh my god' over and over again. Therese was merely curious at the events unfolding before her.

"Winry, get some ice!" Edward ordered, his hands now firmly holding the dog still. His paws were burned badly, raw and bloody on the bottom, blistered on the snout and belly. He had flipped the pan onto himself.

Winry stood still, shocked. Edward growled and turned towards Alphonse, who understood and leapt for the icebox. He tried scraping ice off of the sides of it, to no avail. To help the process, he removed his helmet and used it to dig out ice from the side. He filled his helmet in no time flat and came bounding back, thrusting it into Edward's hands, who was not paying attention to anything but his poor dog.

"Damn thing!" he roared in frustration when he realized that the dog was not breathing anymore. It had a glazed look in its eyes.

Therese poked her head around her bulky uncle. "Daddy, what's wrong with Den?"

Edward felt a sting of pain welling up in him. Winry already had tears streaming down her face and Edward could feel them begin to grow in his own eyes. Den was one of the few names that Therese could say properly. And now the dog was dead. The damn dog killed itself. Edward wasn't even sure what had happened. It had happened so fast, but he still didn't know how a burn could have killed a dog.

As if reading his mind, Alphonse said quietly, "He was old, Ed. He probably had a heart attack."

Edward felt defiant, glaring at the old dog. He had survived through so much; the dumb thing couldn't be done in by a stupid pan of grease. "No," he said through gritted teeth. "He'll be okay. I just know he will."

"Oh, Edward!" Winry cried. "For god's sake, the dog is _dead_!"

Winry realized right away this was a mistake, even before meeting Edward's cold, even glare. She knew how strongly he felt about exposing his daughter to death, how much he had tried to keep her ignorant. As the saying goes, ignorance is bliss. Something Edward didn't have. He wanted that which was most precious to him to have it.

"Silly Mommy, Den is just napping, like me!" Therese proudly pounded her chest like a gorrila.

Both parents just stared at her. They looked shell-shocked. Alphonse hated stepping in, but he felt as though someone needed to correct his niece. He grabbed Therese off of the counter, and she clung to him happily.

"No, Therese, Den is dead. When you die, you go to sleep, and you can't hear anyone. When you die, you stay asleep; you can't wake up anymore." He didn't know what else to say.

"He'll wake up soon, right Fonz-y?" Therese smiled at her uncle.

"I said that–" Alphonse started, but he never finished. Edward cut in.

"That's right, Therese. He'll be up and at 'em in a couple hours. Don't worry." Edward hid behind his long bangs, choosing to look away from his beloved brother. He rose, carrying the dogs limp body through the house and out the back door.

While Winry watched, sobbing, from an upstairs window, and while Therese played building blocks in her room, and while Alphonse called his superior, begging for one more day with his family, Edward dug a deep, deep hole. It was not close to his new home; it was at the old one, where another thing was shamefully hidden. He buried the faithful dog like a disgusting burden, disgusted at himself, disgusted at the smell, disgusted by the whole thing. He packed the dirt in, and put the sod back over it, as though her had never torn the earth up. Then he walked home slowly, the crisp air chilling the sweat dripping down his face.

The dog had been a horrible mistake. The thing that mattered most to him, his daughter, had nearly learned of the greatest and most terrible secrets in the world; death. There would be no more mistakes. Edward was going to see to that.

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Edward is a control-freak!! XDDD Naw, he just cares about his girl because he had such a shitty childhood! ;; Poor tortured soul!


	3. Arguments

In the event that any readers weren't certain, this is the redone version of Young Alchemist. The story that was so crappy, it won the Crap Award. Which I just made up now. Luckily, Defying Thine Law had not won the Crap Award... yet. So far it has won the Author's Best But Still Not Great Award. I'll keep you updated on the different awards this story receives. :)

Disclaimer: I do not own anything.

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There was a raging torrent of argument and fighting. It passed right through the dry-wall and wooden structure, so no matter where you went in the Elric household, screams and shouts could be heard. The only safe haven was the gently sloping fields in yonder lawn, although if one were to listen closely, the shallow sound of echoing voices from over quite a distance could tease your ears, making you turn this way and that, inconclusive about whether or not you're imagining the noise or not.

The only thing that ever slipped out of the house when there were loud noises, though, was the damn dog, which was now dead. And which was now the subject of all this controversy, and the fuel of the debate.

From within the house, warm light leaked out from the windows onto the silky grass. But the light was the only thing that was warm. Everything else in the house was cold and stinging.

"Don't even bother, Alphonse!" Edward roared, ripping the phone from its socket without meaning to. The cradle crashed to the floor, while the receiver was still in a thick hand. The young Mr. Elric was leaning over the table that housed said phone, his face beet red from yelling and screaming, stomping and smashing. Alphonse was opposite him, trying his best to look bewildered, which was quite the impossible feat while in a suit of full body armor.

That particular bout of screaming was induced by a very simple, kind intention; younger Mr. Elric, who really looked the elder, was attempting to call work and beg for an extra day, and just as he had connected with his commanding officer, Edward had ripped the phone from its socket. Which was where they were.

"Don't even bother asking for another day! You won't need it, because you're leaving _right now_!" Edward tried forcefully pushing his brother out the door, plowing into him over and over, his boots skidding across the glossy floor without finding any traction.

"Calm down, Edward!" Mrs. Elric begged through her frustrated tears. She knew it was no use trying to talk him out of something.

"I will not calm down! He needs to go! He is exposing Therese to so many bad things: death, pain, _alchemy_!" Edward gagged the last word out, as if it were painful to say. His eyes were wide and frenzied.

Alphonse did not say anything. But he did not move. He remained steadfast, much to Edward's horror, disgust, and fury. "Get the hell out of my house, or I'll call the cops!"

"Daddy, no!" Therese screamed.

This caused everyone to freeze. She had supposedly been put to bed, however, she had just burst down the stairs, tears streaming down her eyes. The little girl toddled over to her uncle, and clung to his leg, as if she let go, he would vanish in thin air. Her eyes were puffy and red from crying, and as soon as Edward saw this, he slammed his fist down on the table and stalked out of the room. Just as he was leaving the house, he called, "I want you out of here, Alphonse. I will be back in about ten minutes; make sure this is the last time I see you." With that Edward was gone into the night.

"Oh dear," Winry said wistfully, beginning to clear out the wreckage that was the phone. She gave Alphonse a sad smile. "I'm sorry, Al. You know how he is."

"What should I do, Winry?" Inside his mind, Alphonse was replaying over and over again the hatred that he had felt coming of in waves from his brother. His beloved brother. It made him shudder. There was just something not right with the world the day Edward no longer loved Alphonse.

"Let him cool off," she advised, assessing the dent in the table, made from Edward's metal fist. She laughed suddenly, startling Alphonse. "I made that arm, so, indirectly, I made the dent in the table."

Alphonse didn't think it was funny. "I am really worried, Winry. He's never been that angry at me before. I don't know what to do." He looked at his niece, who had managed to squirm into his arms, and was now sleeping. He shook his head. No four year old should have to cry themselves to sleep. "You know what?" he said decisively, gazing lovingly at Therese, "I think I _will _leave. I don't think it's fair that Therese should have to deal with all of this screaming."

Alphonse transferred the snoozing toddler into Winry's arms. She looked a little dazed as she received the child, but she cradled her tightly, needing something to cling to. "Are you sure, Al? I mean, I am sure that Edward will have cooled off and–"

"–Winry, Ed was right. This is his house. I was a guest. I overstayed my welcome, so I'll go. When he wants me back, he'll invite me."

"I guess so," Winry replied, turning her attention to the phone again, balancing Therese in one arm and the parts in the other. She mumbled something about getting a new transistor, as Alphonse picked up a broom and swept up all of the shattered pieces. When he was finished, he placed his hand on his niece's head, unable to give her a kiss, and then walked out the door.

"Hurry back home soon, Al," Winry dutifully called after him, aware that someone had to say it, since Pinako no longer could. Something told her that things were better when they were just children. And something told her that this was as good as it was going to get.

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Short, yeah, but... I have no excuse. The story has just received the Shorty Chappy Award, meaning that the A/N is longer than the actual story! oo

JK!


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